Stop the blame game— Rebuilding trust in disaster response

In the aftermath of two devastating typhoons, the pattern has become all too familiar: floodwaters subside, casualties rise, and the blame game begins. Public outrage meets official defensiveness. Politicians point fingers at one another, agencies trade excuses, and social media becomes a digital courtroom. Yet, amid the noise, one crucial question is drowned out: How can we improve our disaster response protocols?

Disaster governance in the Philippines has long been plagued by a culture of reaction rather than prevention. Every typhoon exposes not just our geographical vulnerability, but the systemic failures that magnify tragedy. Government officials, from cabinet secretaries to local executives, often rush to disaster sites to be seen—not to serve. They come bearing cameras instead of construction materials, press releases instead of blueprints for rehabilitation. The sight of high-ranking officials touring evacuation centers with entourages of videographers and social media writers has become a grim ritual of public relations masquerading as relief work.

The Department of Social Welfare and Development’s (DSWD) recent announcement that relief goods were distributed three to four days after floodings was delivered as if it were an achievement. But for families who had spent those days hungry, thirsty and cold, that was an eternity. The relief packs themselves—consisting of a few kilos of rice, a couple of canned goods, and bottled water—can sustain a family for at most three days. What happens after that? The sight of proud Cebuanos, known for their resilience and self-reliance, reduced to lining highways and begging passing motorists for food and water, is not just heartbreaking—it is an indictment of a system that has failed to evolve.

Local officials are quick to defend their shortcomings by pointing out that many of their own disaster response personnel are also victims. That is true—and it underscores the need for a more robust and decentralized system. In other countries frequently hit by calamities—Indonesia, Japan, and Vietnam, to name a few—protocols have been refined after hard lessons. Emergency supplies are pre-positioned, rapid-response units are trained and rotated, and communication lines are hardened against failure. The Philippines, despite its centuries of experience with natural disasters, remains complacent, treating each calamity as if it were the first.

The declaration of a state of calamity, intended as a mechanism to expedite assistance, has too often been reduced to a procedural step toward fund release. The pattern is predictable: rapid declarations, photo opportunities, and then a gradual tapering of aid. Within a week, relief efforts dwindle to a trickle, evacuation centers run low on provisions, and survivors are left to fend for themselves. The urgency dissipates as quickly as the floodwaters, and the lessons are forgotten until the next storm arrives.

What the country needs is not another investigation into who failed—but a national conversation on how to stop failing. The questions must shift from blame to reform: Why are relief protocols not standardized across regions? Why is there no real-time coordination platform connecting local and national disaster units? Why do we still rely on paper-based systems and bureaucratic approvals during emergencies? And above all, why does our government resist the very change that experience has demanded time and again?

Benchmarks are not lacking; what is missing is the political will to adopt them. We can learn from our neighbors who faced similar challenges but refused to repeat their mistakes. They invested in resilient infrastructure, empowered local communities with training and resources, and integrated technology into disaster management.

Every typhoon that hits us is both a test and a teacher. To keep failing the test while ignoring the lessons is not just incompetence—it is negligence. The Philippines cannot afford to remain a nation of survivors forever. It must become a nation that prepares, adapts, and protects. Ending the blame game is the first step toward that transformation. The real measure of leadership, after all, is not how many cameras follow you into the flood, but how many lives are spared from it.